


Static Fragments of a Broken Reciver

by grammarpolice



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Big Brother Shiro (Voltron), Foster Kid Keith (Voltron), Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt, Hurt Keith (Voltron), Hurt/Comfort, I Don't Even Know, I just wrote this for fun, Keith & Shiro (Voltron) are Foster Siblings, Keith (Voltron) Whump, Keith (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, Keith (Voltron) is a Mess, Team as Family, i dont know how to write endings, kinda sad, not really - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 16:40:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19154941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grammarpolice/pseuds/grammarpolice
Summary: It comes in waves like the static fragments of a broken receiver, fading in and out, washing over him in pins and needles that writhe against his skull. Pain seers through his abdomen, pushing, clawing, dragging him to the dirt against his own will.





	Static Fragments of a Broken Reciver

It comes in waves like the static fragments of a broken receiver, fading in and out, washing over him in pins and needles that writhe against his skull. Pain seers through his abdomen, pushing, clawing, _dragging_ him to the dirt against his own will. A grunt escapes past his clenched jaw, dying the moment it hits the air. Through heavy eyelids, he watches the scene unfold around him in a series of blurred colors and distant flashes that paint the background with incomplete neon streaks.

 

There’s blue, and green, and black, and yellow, and purple.

 

No red.

 

He frowns. Red is his favorite color.

 

Incoherent excerpts of sound travel through his eardrums, circulating his brain as a shark does bait. He tries to grasp onto them, clutch them with his throbbing hands and never let go but they’re lightyears away. So, instead, he focuses on the all-consuming, white-hot pain that flares in his stomach.

 

His hand feels weightless, like it’s not his own, as he shakingly guides it to the affliction; a feeble attempt to mask the agony. His flesh brushes against a thick, slimy substance-- it’s warm, like the desert sun. A metallic scent slithers up his nostrils, joining the muddled words that gyrate the inside of his mind.

 

Nausea bubbles in his stomach and for a moment he thinks he may throw up. He swallows past a lump in his throat, forcing the revulsion to a simmer.

 

His eyes grow hefty on their sockets, weighing down his lids with the inevitable force of gravity. His throbbing head follows suit, collapsing into the ground beneath his motionless figure. With each choked exhale, particles of dirt collect on his tongue, melding with the copper taste of his own blood.

 

He’s not sure how long he lays there; after a while, time melts into itself. Seconds, minutes, hours, lost to the endless pain pulsating from his abdomen.

 

He remembers the time he was ten, all scrawny and young. His foster father had given him a pretty good beating, broke his arm in two. He’d gone to school the next day, wrist swelled up pretty big, bone sticking out of the side of his forearm like a white cap. Mrs. Mortin’s face had turned as pale as his bone as she called the principal. Shiro had come, scraped him off the chair of the principal's office, and taken him home.

 

Where’s Shiro, anyway?

 

_He wants Shiro._

 

His conscious gets dragged back to reality with a cruel start as the ground beneath him shakes with rounds of thunder. They’re getting closer, crashing against the dirt like a stampeding herd of wild antelope.

 

The voices echoing around him sound galaxies away lost among the endless pallets of stars. Figures hover above him, the neon streaks from before-- blue, green, yellow, _black_. He screws his eyes shut as hands wrap around his torso-- gentle, strong-- pulling him up from the dirt and into their chest. It takes a moment before he realizes it’s Shiro-- his fresh scent, the unforgettable fragments of drowned out voice, the way he brushes through his sweaty hair with familiar fingertips.

 

“It’s okay, Keith,” he whispers. “It’s okay, it’s okay.”

 

Keith grasps each word like a lifeline, clawing his way from his own mind with each syllable. He’s nauseous again, like a gut punch to the stomach, as a weight settles on his abdomen.

 

“Keep the pressure-- need to stop-- bleeding.”

 

He recognizes the voice, even over the running water in his ears, but he can’t--

 

“--fuck, fuck! There’s _so_ much.”

 

A different voice, low, deeper--

 

“I called Coran.”

 

With a labored breath, Keith peels open his eyelids; green and blue blurs crouch in front of him. He blinks and they, ever so slightly, fizzle into view. They’re moving their mouths, looking at him with glassy eyes, but he can’t register what they’re saying.

 

“That’s it, buddy,” says Shiro.  

 

Keith opens his mouth to speak but the words die on his tongue, caught between broken inhales. He tries again, “S’ro. W’at hap’pe’ed?” He hates the way his tone shakes, the way he quivers in Shiro’s arms, the way he sounds just as far away as the rest of them.

 

“You were shot. Don’t worry, Pidge and Lance, they-- it’s gonna be okay.”

 

Keith’s starting to think that’s the only the Shiro can say. He nods, lulling his head deeper into Shiro’s chest.

 

“Wa’t to go home. I ‘ant to ‘o home,” he manages to say over the warm liquid that's pooling on his tongue. He swallows it down, accomplishing nothing but fueling growing nausea in his gut.

 

“I know. I know, buddy. You’re going home, Hunk went to get Yellow.”

 

Keith nods again.

 

_He’s so tired._

 

“No, Keith, stay awake. You can’t sleep-- you can’t--”

 

Pain flares in his abdomen again. He grunts, shielding his face against the crook of Shiro’s neck.  

 

“Sorry, sorry, mullet.”

 

_Mullet._

 

Must be Lance.

 

His eyelids weigh heavy like a bag of bricks. He closes them.

 

_He’s so tired._

 

“No! No, please. Stay awake. Please. Please!”

 

“He’s bleeding through the towel, Shiro.”

 

“Kid, open your eyes. For me. Please.”

 

Keith, against every plea of his body, forces open his eyes.

 

_For Shiro._

 

“Good. Good, Hunk’s almost here.”

 

“I see Yellow!”

 

Keith feels Shiro’s muscles shift under him. The grip around his chest tightens.

 

“Sh’ro?” he asks through heavy breaths.

 

“Yeah? Yeah, what’s up? Hunk’s here.”

 

Keith coughs, the metallic liquid in his mouth splattering onto his armor. “Thank you,” he whispers, slipping closed his eyes.

 

_He’s so tired._

 

“No! No! Keith! No, please! Please!”

 

A gust of wind scatters the dirt as a pressure rattles the earth. Somewhere, lost between the static fragments of a broken receiver, he hears a distant roar.  


Then everything stops.

**Author's Note:**

> HE DOES NOT DIE DON'T WORRY 
> 
> i wrote this for fun so i though i'd post it here in case anyone liked it. 
> 
> thanks for reading <3<3 
> 
> and for those of you taking exams, good luck! 
> 
> thanks for reading my garbage instead of studying ;)


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